


Institute Policy

by Illwix_T4ntul



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Macro/Micro, Manipulation, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Shrinking, The Magnus Archives Season 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24667006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illwix_T4ntul/pseuds/Illwix_T4ntul
Summary: It's a late night at the office for Martin Blackwood when a mysterious event causes him to drop into Jon's hands. How will the two grapple with this new dynamic? Will Martin ever get back to normal? Is anywhere safe for them? More importantly, just what is this new side of Jon?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 65





	1. Statement Begins

**Archivist**

It is institute policy to report any and all supernatural activity occurring within the boundaries of the facility. Yes. Yes, it was absolutely crucial that there be an efficient and formal filing of… of strange occurrences and… Hey! Get down from there! I’m warning you! Martin!

… Sigh. Yes, I understand the irony of recording a statement simply to stick it away without anyone else in the world knowing of its existence but… Listen, by the end of it you’ll, or, I’ll I suppose? I don’t even know why I’m explaining this. Not a single living soul will be hearing about this outside of the two of us. Martin! No! Get off the coffee cup! 

Original statement of Jonathan Sims on the… shrinkage? Shrinking? ...Size displacement of coworker Martin Blackwood on the 11th of June, 2016. Statement recorded June 12th, 2016. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins. 

**Archivist**

Now… I think we can both agree that these are unusual circumstances. Unusual circumstances that require unusual solutions. I am choosing to withhold knowledge of this event from the Magnus Institute out of fear of… well, look. I know what we do to living paranormal entities. Martin won’t exactly get spared just because he’s- 

Oh, look now I didn’t mean. Martin, it’s okay. Here, speak into the microphone. 

**Martin**

H-hello? Can you hear me? Is the mic picking up my audio?

**Archivist**

Yes it’s picking you up fine, just make your statement so I can put you back in my pocket. Shirt pocket for anyone asking. No, I’m not putting my coworker in the same sleeve as my wallet. I think trusting him with my credit card on any day would be a- Look, I’m getting off topic. Just state what happened to you and I’ll pick up on the rest. Let me know if your voice is getting tired from the yelling, alright? Don’t strain it too much. 

**Martin**

O-oh well… thanks. Hi everyone, it’s me, Martin! So uhm, jeez where to begin. I guess we could start on that Saturday night. It was a late night at the office, everyone else had gone out for drinks but, well, I was still under quarantine for possible worm infections. Nasty little things had come squelching out of the walls the other day into the archiving room and one of them had -shudder- landed in my hair. 

So yeah, I was stuck at the office until they could be positive I wasn’t carrying one of the blasted things. I was whittling away the time just sorting and categorizing the files. I still think we ought to sort by geography rather than time, but that’s just my own personal pet project. 

**Archivist**

A pet project you’ve been doing against the express orders of your superiors, I should mention. 

**Martin**

Oh shush. You’ve told me you support it… I’m sure you mentioned it at least once. Maybe you were drunk, I’m not too sure. And besides, I’m tiny now. You can’t be mean to me.    
  


**Archivist**

If being short were a get out of jail free card from being harassed, you’d have thought I could go a day without someone mentioning my platforms. 

**Martin**

-Snort- Yes I suppose that’s true. Anyway, back to the story. It was probably around eleven when I heard a door squeaking open. I’d nearly dozed off at that point so I… I almost thought I imagined it. I sat there for a second few more when I heard it again, an old metal door squeaking off its hinges. At first I thought it was the worms and was gonna bring a fire extinguisher with me just in case but- but no, I guess common sense got the better of me and I decided that, if there were enough worms to knock open a door, a single extinguisher is only gonna make them angrier. 

I shouted down the hallway, thinking maybe it was one of you all coming back for something after hours. Thought maybe I could guilt trip you into bringing me a coffee Monday or something, but when I yelled at them there was no reply. 

A shiver ran up my back as I proceeded forward, each step seeming just a bit too loud against the waxed floors. Sure enough, I rounded a corner and saw the old storage room’s door propped open, a stack of books wedged to keep it from closing and sealing itself off completely. I know I probably should’ve phoned one of you, or- or called security but it was late! The building was officially closed and you all were probably drunk or asleep so I… I went forward to confront the intruder. 

Yeah, I know. Dumb idea, I’m lucky I’m alive, whatever. I didn’t want to be the coward who sat back and watched as the place got robbed. 

So I walked into the room. It was cold, like a meat locker, and lit only with those old, neon blue led lights that flicker and click on and off like, at any minute, they were liable to finally hit the overdue bucket and leave you in utter darkness. Well, you’ve been in the storage room, where we keep bits of evidence from previous cases, I needn’t go into too much detail. 

Anyway, tip-toeing through the library of evidence, I thought I spotted the figure not too far ahead of me. It looked like a man, young, dressed up in an old timey trench coat and bowler hat. I yelled out at him, shouting something about being a government worker and, “he better stop right where he is”... I don’t know just what I expected, but he simply shoved the shelf separating us over onto me, and made off in the confusion. 

I was pinned there for I’m not too sure how long, but when I came to the world was a muddled heap of blunt objects and crushing weight. I… attempted to move my body and something, wedged deep into my arm, caught and I heard this… this terrible snapping noise. 

I screamed, my whole body just yelling in pain and confusion and disorder I… I was sure I was dead, that if I tried to move my body any more then the entire pile would collapse in on me and I’d! I’d!! 

**Archivist**

Martin! Martin! Hey, hey! It’s okay! Shh, hey. I’ve got you, you’re alright. 

**Martin**

W-what exactly are you doing? -sniff- 

**Archivist**

I’m… I’m erm, comforting. I figured you were in distress so I ought to-

**Martin**

Comforting? You’re… you’re petting through my hair like a damn cat. 

**Archivist**

Oh! I... I appologize. I… I can stop if you-

**Martin**

N-no it’s… it’s okay. I uhm, kind of like it aha. It’s a bit soothing. But… but anyway, yeah. That’s when I started freaking out and yelling and, a few minutes later, you had come and dug me out of the rubble. 

**Archivist**

Right. I’d come into work Sunday morning looking to get some overdue case work filed and out of the way before the actual workload got dumped on me Monday. I’d meant to do it Saturday but, yes like you said, we’d been out pubbing. I figured I’d also go check in on you. I imagine it does get… rather lonely here at the institute overnight, so I’d made it a point to grab you a coffee. Yes, that one right there. No, Martin, considering the circumstances you may  _ not  _ have it. No, no! You’d probably have a caffeine hit strong enough to kill your tiny little heart. Or you’d fall right in and boil yourself alive. I’ve seen enough science fiction to know how this ends. 

But yes, I went into your makeshift bedroom and saw you weren’t there. I considered it odd, especially considering you’d left a bundle of work half finished at your desk with no sign that someone else had yanked you away from it. You do love throwing the papers down dramatically when someone interrupts you for another task. 

So I went looking for you, saw that the storage door was open, that several of the shelves had been pushed over and, yeah, you already know the rest. You appeared to be in extreme distress, screaming about a broken arm and intruders and… yes, well. I didn’t really say much, just kind of… picked you up in my shock by the scruff of your turtleneck and placed you in the palm of my hand. You felt, no offence Martin, so fragile there. Quivering and wrapping your arms around my fingers as if, at any moment, someone might come and swat you like a bug.

… Yes, yes I apologize. No, no you’re not a bug. It was dramatic flavor text, Martin. You know how we do our statements here. 

Anyway, once we arrived at the medbay I didn’t really know what to do with you. I set you down on a cot, placed a larger cup of cotton swabs next to you so I wouldn’t accidentally sit there without thinking, mind you I’d still only had about 4 hours of hungover sleep last night, and got you a bandage and cotton ball to prop your arm up onto. Thus, the current arrangement. 

For archival purposes, Martin is standing on my desk in front of me, cotton ball compressed under his broken arm and bandage wrapped around the length of it. His shirt is a bit bloodstained, but save for getting the scissors out I’m not sure how to get it off him, or if any retail store in England carries sizes that small. 

I’ve offered him small sips out of a glass of water I keep on my desk, though have avoided coffee for the time being. I’ve no idea how this sudden size change could have changed his internal biology, or how serving sizes might affect him differently than they would, say, a mouse of equivalent size. 

He’s now gesturing his one good arm up and squeezing his palm as though to… oh, he wants to get up and say something. As it were, Martin is too short to reach the microphone in question and his voice too weak to carry the remaining five inches to it. Thus, I’ve had to carry him on the flat of my palm and pretend that this isn’t entirely demeaning for a position such as mine. 

Now, any closing thoughts, Martin? 

**Martin**

Yes, well uhm. I just want to say it’s been awfully generous of Jon to do all this for me. I know I’m already a bit of a bother, what with stowing up in the archive room and all, but- 

Yes, Jon I know you don’t think I am. Aha, yes I guess this does sort of make me a teacher’s… hey! What’s that supposed to mean!? 

No, no I don’t know actually! Come on Jon, lean into the mic! Tell me exactly what you said about me being a little pe-

[At this point in the interview, both parties had moved far enough away from the mic so as to become unhearable.]

**Archivist**

Christ, yes you can have my bed. Fine, just anything to shut your drugged self up. That’s how breaking a bone works, Martin, your body… No I haven’t got time to explain why, I’m afraid it’s hitting you harder than usual because of the- Gods, will you just be quiet and let me? 

… I’ve shoved Martin back in my pocket. Pants pocket this time. Maybe an hour in there will let him calm down enough to… God, he’s trying to squirm out now. Look at him go, little arms flailing out of the flappy… ahem, right. 

The present arrangement is as follows. I’m taking this recording device back home where Martin and I will be staying together until we’re able to find whatever artifact or mystical… whatever caused this phenomenon. I’ll be keeping daily logs of his behavior for the sake of keeping a complete archive for when we can come out to the institute with this knowledge. As of right now I… don’t exactly feel comfortable keeping him here. Those worms are nearly as big as he is, the largest among them at least, and it’d only be a matter of time before some junior researcher wasn’t looking where they were going, Martin was underfoot, and… Well, yes, you can fill in the gaps. 

Right now he’s calming down as we make our way out of the institute. Thankfully it’s Sunday, so only the essential staff seem to be- Hello! Yes, no, I’m headed out for lunch, thanks. No- just going home to grab something. Maybe tomorrow! Yes, thank you. You too! 

God. It’s going to be impossible keeping this together, isn’t it? I can’t imagine recording on the tube. Martin’s been good, he’s just sort of huddled up in my pocket. Hope he’s not suffocating or anything. I’d go check on him, but there’s just enough people lingering around the lobby that I’m afraid I’d be suspect. 

As for food and caring for a two inch tall man I… suppose it could be worse. Food shouldn’t be an issue I don’t think, he still gets hungry and he responded well to the bits of bagel I let him nibble on earlier. I suppose we’ll deal with the actual logistics when we get there, but for now I think it’s enough to keep him in a safe, warm environment away from… away from…

Christ fucking damn it, I forgot about the cat. 

Statement Ends. 


	2. The First 48 Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a day since Jon first discovered a shrunken Martin and it seems as though the stresses of everything are catching up with him...

**Archivist**

Continuation of statement by Jonathan Sims over the size displacement of coworker Martin Blackwood on the 11th of June, 2016. Statement recorded on June 13th, 2016. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. 

Statement continues. 

Now, I won’t lie, these past 48 hours have been… tricky. No, no. Tricky isn’t the right word for it. Downright annoying is more like it. First of all, strike whatever nonsense I was prattling on about at the end of the last recording. Martin won’t be living with me and I was a damned fool to suggest it. The cat, the cat! How could I forget about the fucking cat!! 

[Sounds of a trashcan toppling over can be heard in the background] 

**Martin**

Jon it really isn’t that big a deal. So your apartment had a cat, that’s fine! I don’t mind staying here for a while! Better than becoming cat food at least. 

**Archivist**

No-No! Martin you don’t understand! This complicates things a thousand fold… What if someone walks in here while you’re out? What if those damned worms come back for you?! I… I know we’ve already been over this but… Hey, Hey! Get off the cup! Get off the!! 

[Splash]

Damn it, Martin! Come on just, no stop flailing like that! You just have to- Come on, flip it turnways, no, see- Jesus you’re slippery. At least the mug’s gone and cooled, Christ man. I can only imagine if- 

[The door creaks open, a knock proceeding it by a moment. The mic is knocked over and a sharp twang of feedback spikes the recording before a muffled conversation continues.] 

**Tim**

Say, Jon, have you got a moment? 

**Archivist**

No, Tim. I haven’t got “A moment”. But that’s not going to stop you from asking whatever it is that you need from me, is it? 

**Tim**

Oh well, erm. If you’re really busy. You recording a statement? 

**Archivist**

Er-uhm yes. Yes statement number… [Files ruffling] Yes here we go, Case #38592 regarding a… Margaret Thatcher sighting in North Ireland. I’m… only just now realizing this is likely a joke, I’ll file it away right away but was there anything you needed, Tim?

**Tim**

No, no. Well, not really. I was just wondering if you’d seen Martin around anywhere? 

**Archivist**

Martin? No. You’ve checked his room, have you? [The mic shuffles as the archivist readjusts it, propping it back up. The coffee cup scrapes across the hardwood desk, Jonathan feigning a casual demeanor. A soft sipping noise can be heard followed by loud, hard sputtering]

**Tim**

Yeah I’ve taken a look there and there’s no- Christ man, you alright? Gone down the wrong pipe? 

**Archivist**

Yes, yes. Just a little _something_ in my coffee. Now was there anything else you wanted to pester me about? Or can I get back to my work? 

**Tim**

Your very important work about Tories in Ireland, yes. I’ll let you get back to it Jon. Just let me know if you see Martin around anywhere. I just wanted to ask him something about the- [Slam] 

**Archivist**

Christ, Martin. The hell was that? Come on, out of my coffee with you. Into the mic so the whole world can know you were kicking around like a damn toddler when I was trying to act natural! 

**Martin**

Well -hack cough- I’m _sorry_ Jon, but just what would you do if your wading suddenly became a full backstroke to avoid getting smothered by your lips?!

**Archivist**

Oh come on now, you’re a grown man, suffer through a few minutes of acting with me so that your whole existence isn’t blown by Tim staring into my coffee cup! Now are we good? Can I go back to the very stressful job of having to care for your minuscule ass? 

**Martin**

… Fine, but I want an apology for drenching me. 

**Archivist**

A?! A damn apology?? No I won’t be apologizing for… No! Don’t you give me that face. You’re not allowed to use the pouty face. It was… convincing enough as it were when you were normal sized. You’re definitely not allowed to use it now considering you’ve only gotten…

Hmph. Fine. I’m _sorry_ Martin for totally making you fall into my coffee after I’ve asked you numerous times not to climb up there and… Fine, fine. I apologize. 

**Martin**

Heh. Thanks. H-hey! Come on, don’t! All I did was stick my tongue out at you, jeez. No need to smother me with your finger. Ow, ow ow! Come on, Jon that hurts. My arm still isn’t- Ow!! Jon!! Fucking stop it!!

**Archivist**

Hm? Oh… oh, sorry. I uhm, apologize for that. Are you alright? Here let me- [A sharp intake of breath is heard]. Right, sorry. I’ll uhm, let you patch yourself up if that’s alright. I… think I’m going to go get a refill of coffee. 

Jesus. I don’t know why he’s suddenly developed a short temper towards me. When he was normal sized we used to rough around like that all the time. Sure he… didn’t quite care for it back then I suppose, but it was never to the point of yelling like that… 

No, listen I. [Sigh] I don’t even know why I’m explaining myself. There’s not a single god damn person around save for me and the innumerable cryptids stalking us from the walls but, regardless. It’s just been a long, long two days. Ever since I discovered Martin I’ve had to work thrice as hard as usual just to keep up the ruse. Do you realize how damn stressful that is?? I already have a work loard far too busy for my paygrade and now I have to care for a man who, by all means, was already essentially under my care before all this. I mean! I bought food for him, I picked him up lunches, I stayed late nights with him I- I! 

… It was a completely unprofessional relationship I can see now. Perhaps the universe itself is punishing me for daring to think of myself as a caretaker of sorts. “Oh look at you, all cute and serving of this miserable little twat, now aren’t you glad you have to look after him twenty four _fucking_ seven?!?” Well no, universe! I’m not! I’d much rather be at home, watching tellie with the cat, or just about ANYTHING other than spending another second here in this miserable, god damned near cursed facility! 

**Sasha**

…

**Archivist**

Oh, Sasha. Yes -ahem- How… how long exactly were you standing there? 

**Sasha**

Not long at all, really. You do like to ramble yourself into a hole, don’t you? I just came in here for a spot of water myself but, [sip] honestly this seems like much more entertaining. 

**Archivist**

N-now Sasha, I can explain-

**Sasha**

No, no need Jon! I think I’ve got quite enough information. 

**Archivist**

Sasha! Please just- just let me explai-

**Sasha**

You have a thing for Martin, don’t you?

**Archivist**

You see he- … Hold on, a what now? A- a thing? What, you mean, romantically?? No! No no no no! Sasha of all the inappropriate, misguided, downright bellicose accusations you could’ve levied and that’s what you got out of all that?! I’m going to listen back to the records and prove that this is- this is nothing more than an elaborate prank on your part! Come on now, Sasha, what other possible motive could I have for rambling about work on company time like that isn’t half the damn job. 

A thing for Martin, how preposterous can you get?! That little cheeky mole that hides away at the first sight of danger? It’s honestly an insult to my sensibilities in romantic partners to even insinuate that I’d have “a thing” for Martin. He’s nothing more than a coworker, nothing more, nothing less and it’d be in your best interest to never bring this train of thought up with me or him ever again, thank you. Good day. [Slam] 

Christ. You think you know a coworker. Though how she could find any resemblance of fondness in that rant is… beyond me. The mind of a woman I guess. Side note, is that casually sexist? I’ll make a point of asking someone besides the one woman I interact with on a daily basis. Maybe during another pub crawl. God stop thinking about pubs, it’s only Monday, Jonathan. Ugh, though with how much stress this whole thing has been I’d say I bloody well deserve a night out. 

Hello Martin, feeling better? Yes? That’s… that’s good. I apologize for the [cough] brashness before, I understand it was completely unprofessional considering our business relationships and-

What?

No I can’t just leave you here unsupervised. No- no hey! Martin! Come on man you can hardly get off my desk without nearly breaking your legs, and what happens if someone comes in here while you’re on the floor and… Yes okay you’ve found a toothpick, very clever of you. Now give me that before you end up gutting yourself-

OW! 

Christ almighty Martin when did you get so good at stabbing people with god damned toothpicks?! Alright fine point taken, you can at least get their attention. But what then? Tim or Sasha sees you, you’re toast. No, trust me, you’re rather better off with me than with one of them. Sasha in particular seems to have some inane notion in her head that… Well, it’s inane like I said, no use wasting time pondering it. 

Oh but, yes I got you a cracker from the break room. I’m afraid it got a little crushed in my pocket, but it’s still in the seal, so. Heh, yes I suppose fitting a full sized cracker into your mouth at this size would be a little tricky. 

For archival purposes, Martin is eagerly digging into the cracker, picking up the crumbs and nibbling away at their edges like they’re a full sized meal. Oh, there he goes shooting a glare at me but that’s not stopped him from continuing to devour it, has it? Here, let’s- Yes I’ve gone ahead and poured him a little drop of water, though just that drop seems big enough for him to drown- erm- swim in, yes. Do hope you don’t mind the shower Martin, but no use dunking your body in my perfectly good glass. You’re probably filthy with dust anyway. 

No yes I suppose you’re right, the coffee bath from earlier probably… oh gods I drank from that. No- hey! Stop laughing! Martin! Don’t make me throw you! 

There we go, he’s gone and assumed the right shade of pink, haven’t you. Of course I was joking Martin, when one talks about murdering another coworker only very rarely must you worry that they’re being sincere. 

Now that we’ve both settled in, let’s talk logistics. The best part of any heists isn’t it, planning out all the ways it could possibly fuck up. Now, regardless of how often I’m normally at the office after hours, and how often you go missing on missions and whatnot, people are already starting to get suspicious. The last thing we need is for the police to get involved and start questioning people, the security footage would be the first place they’d look. I’ve gone ahead and taken the liberty of recording over the section of security footage from Sunday morning finding you so that, to anyone else, it would appear as though you just… vanished when that shelf came and hit you upside the head. 

This serves a purpose two-fold. First, it turns the suspicions for your whereabouts away from me and the office and towards wherever that mysterious figure ran off too. Supernatural abductions, sure, they’re all enough believers to accept it without much question. Though what a supernatural entity would want with an intern is honestly beyond me. Let them draw their own conclusions I suppose. 

Secondly, this new mystery could provide a credible alibi as to why I’d be spending so much time at the office after hours. This intruder entered the facility under the cover of night and was able to bypass any security measures put in place, so it makes sense that I’d be the one to lie in wait to catch the creature responsible for “abducting” my dearly beloved colleague Martin. Yes, yes I think I should be able to pull that off with enough of a straight face. 

Now, I’ve a couple errands to run if we’re going to keep up the ruse. Supply trips ought to be infrequent, we can’t afford to leave any trace that you’re living here. 

Hm?

Well… yes I… I suppose leaving you here would be marginally less safe than letting you tag along for the shopping trip. Fine, come on into the pocket you go. Yes, shirt pocket, Martin. Any closing words for the archives?

**Martin**

Hello! We’re off to the store! Isn’t that exciting? Oh I do wonder what kinds of foods I’d even be able to eat anymore. Actually, just to let you know I am lactose intolerant so- 

**Archivist**

Yes, yes Martin I know. That’s why I buy you the- yes that kind of coffee. Come on man I’ve worked with you long enough to realize you never touch the dairy.

**Martin**

You… actually noticed?

**Archivist**

Well! There’s no need to act so surprised about it! We’ve worked together for a fair amount of time now I thought it only prudent to address the dietary restrictions of- Look, we’ve had company parties before. It's not like you’re the only one who!! 

**Martin**

Jon, are you blushing?

**Archivist**

INTO THE POCKET WITH YOU. 

END RECORDING.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter!! As always, please leave suggestions in the comments below! The overwhelming amount of support I got last chapter was a huge factor as to how I got this done so quickly, so thank you all again!


	3. Supply Run.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the store means more bickering! Are they technically living together if they're both just stuck at work? I'm sure they both have their own ideas about it.  
> Also included: Hints at a hidden identity, a glimpse into motives unknown, and... well, I won't go and spoil that just yet.

**Archivist**

[In a hushed tone] Statement resumes. 

**Martin**

Psst, Jon. Why’re you whispering? 

**Archivist**

Because, Martin, people look at you strangely if you’re speaking into an antiquated tape recorder in the middle of the milk aisle. Then again, I suppose the entire reason I began recording was out of some, vein hope that someone would notice your head sticking out of my pocket and reaffirm my suspicions that I’m not insane and haven’t just made up a smaller version of you to fill the gaping void in my soul I’d have after losing a colleague. 

… For archival reasons that was a joke. 

**Martin**

Well come on Jon, people won’t think you’re too strange. It’s 2016, vloggers exist, don’t they? Maybe you could just say you’re… doing a show! 

**Archivist**

A… a show? Martin, we’re not bloggers. Our work is so far above any pedantic twat with a phone shouting about whatever nonsense fills their head as they head down to the local supermarket. We get  _ paid  _ to prattle about other’s nonsense. 

**Martin**

Hmph. Well, don’t come crying to me when you’re straight stuck out of an explanation as to why you’re talking into a microphone in the soup aisle. Oooh! Ooh! Get some eggs, I absolutely  _ adore  _ some scrambled with a helping of toast in the morning. 

**Archivist**

[Grumbling] Need I remind you this is coming out of my paycheck? Missing people don’t get salaries, after all. I suppose at your size a single egg should do well enough to keep you filled for a week, suppose it wouldn’t be too much. Can you even buy eggs individually?

Oh whatever, I’ll grab a dozen and just make myself an omelette to cope with my horrible purchasing decisions. 

**Martin**

Do you cook much, Jon? I seem to recall most of the snacks you’d bring to the work parties being store bought, heh. 

**Archivist**

Look, it’s- it’s no secret I live alone, yes? I’m sorry I don’t exactly have a lot of reason to cook. 

**Martin**

Well see- Good lord man! 

**Archivist**

What? The microwave meal? Oh come on, Martin, it’s just a little- Don’t give me that look!

**Martin**

All I’m saying is, if I was living with you, our cooking problem would be solved quick as a fox. 

**Archivist**

Oh, so you’re some master cook then?

**Martin**

I never claimed to be a master! Just that I, y’know, experimented around with baking and the like during my college years! Might have whipped up a couple homemade recipes for office parties… not that anyone noticed, it seems. 

**Archivist**

Well of course I noticed you brought dishes to the holiday parties, Martin. I just, well I’ll be real I genuinely didn’t think them homemade. Are you sure they’re not store bought? Well, of course you are, you made them after all. It’s just… Well they were rather good is all. 

**Martin**

[Snort] Thank you for being polite enough to not sound surprised

**Archivist**

Oh come off it, that’s not what I meant. 

Say, Martin you know fruits, right? Are these pears out of date? I can never tell if the mushy bits are meant to be like that, or if I’m out here buying horribly out of season produce. [What may be conceived as a laugh occurs]

Aherm, anyways. I think that’s enough shopping for the month. Like I said, I live light and don’t tend to cook anyways. I’ve only gone so far as to include some basic cooking ingredients here at Martin’s request. I’ve no idea what baking soda is though and I don’t intend to find out now. 

**Martin**

Hey, y’know what! Maybe I could teach you how to cook! We’ve a microwave which, granted, is no oven, but I’ve still got a few pots and pans around my office from when I was staying overnight! 

**Archivist**

...Ignoring the fact that you’ve evidently been keeping an open flame inside a highly flammable, likely asbestos filled building, I don’t anticipate us pulling a Ratatouille anytime soon. With our luck, you’d fly right out of my hair and fry alive in the pan, or get dashed up with the onions, or any number of gruesome deaths that come to mind when one considers that you are, again, roughly the size of an egg and just as delicate as one at that. 

Now come on, get your head down in my pocket we’re getting to the checkout line. 

**Martin**

Aw come off it, Jon! I know this lovely quiche recipe that I think you’d adore- MmPH

**Archivist**

[Hissing] Pocket! Now!

Right, stop squirming you can come out now. No, no I didn’t donate to the charity at the checkout thingy. Martin you know those are scams, come on now. A multi-billion dollar corporation doesn’t need your generosity to get a tax-write off incentive… Well if you feel guilty about it that just means their guilt tripping is  _ working.  _

Either way, back at the institute. I’ve gone ahead and laid out everything we need for keeping you here long term: A little bike, glowy thingy you can use to get around during night if need be, a box of toothpicks for you to impale- sigh, to defend yourself with, and enough rations to keep you nice and fed for a month. Doubt goldfish go bad, though you might want to be quick on eating the granola bars. Well look, I hardly know how to feed myself let alone balance a diet for a microscopic man, get off my dick about it. 

No, I don’t think I’ll stop “being grumpy” about this whole situation. I didn’t ask to be in charge of you and the only reason I don’t just let you live here like some kind of rat in the walls is because I’m afraid you’d end up getting a worm inside you and heaven knows we need more problems with agents operating inside the facility. 

Furthermore, I should point out that the agent from the other night still has yet to be identified. We’ve taken a few sweeps of the place including the underground vaults and have yet to come up with anything out of place, let alone out of place. It’s just… frustrating. I could’ve sworn I’ve… I’ve seen him before. It’s not even a rational placement, it’s not like I stumble across strange blokes in film noir outfits on the street often, yet for whatever reason I can’t shake it feels like I… know him. 

Hm? How do I know it’s a him? Yes well, I suppose my gendering could use some work, I think in this line of work simply due to the nature of it being my voice cataloging things, I often assume a male subject unless directly corrected. Then again, no. No it must’ve been a man. Don’t ask me how I know, I don’t even know that, I just have this inclination that won’t go away. 

Ugh, look if you’re going to be talking to me you may as well hop onto the mic. I’ve gone ahead and made a little flight of stairs out of old paperwork stacked up from earlier. Think it ought to do the job just fine. I’ve also looked into getting a shoe box or old filing cabinet that I could convert into a bedroom for you to stay in. 

**Martin**

[Gasp] Huph, hoo. Jeez, quite a [pant] steep climb, those papers. Phew… Alright, and I’m up! 

**Archivist**

I’ve no idea why you’re pumping your arms in the air like you’ve done something. It’s all of a six inch climb, not like there’s anyone around to see this stunning accomplishment either. 

**Martin**

Aw come on Jon, lemme have a  _ bit  _ of fun at least. 

**Archivist**

Hpmh. Fine. Your fun agenda can be satisfied a little bit. As a treat. 

**Martin**

Hehe. See, look, you’re smiling! 

**Archivist**

I most certainly am  _ not. _ Let the record show that this is nothing but libel. I, Jon Sims, do not smile.

**Martin**

Oh really? So I suppose you’re doing a fake grin then? One of your famed sarcasm scowls? Trying to hide the fact that you’re proud of me for climbing so high! [Muffled thump] Haha! Hey! Mphm!

**Archivist**

Let the record also state that Martin absolutely melts if you give him the littlest of head pats. Though, guess it’s not too little if the finger applying it is large enough to smother your whole body. 

See? I know how to be gentle, Christ. 

**Martin**

Hehe!! Jon, quit it! That tickles! 

**Archivist**

Not until you admit that I don’t smile.

**Martin**

You’re -hehe- saying that  _ as  _ you’re smiling, jerk! 

**Archivist**

Not the worst fate to befall you, is it? Death by tickling? I’m hardly even touching you, my finger’s in your hair, sure, but I’m pretty sure it’s just my nail grazing your gut. 

**Martin**

I’ll get you -hehehe!- back for this!! Just you wait! 

**Archivist**

I’d love to see you bloody well try, you’re never finding my weak points. Putting aside that I haven’t got any, of course. Besides, the only time you’d be getting that close to my chest would be-... 

**Martin**

Ohh? When exactly Jon,  _ do  _ tell me -teehee-

Huh? Why’d you go and stop?

Jon? 

**Archivist**

I…

**Martin**

Jon why’ve you got that look on your face??

**Archivist**

I… I think Sasha just walked past and… and she-

**Martin**

Jon?! Where are you going??

**Archivist**

Don’t move, don’t fucking move from this spot, and don’t touch the office mic. I’m… I’m going to be right back. 

Statement Ends. 


	4. Recording Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon pursues what could very well be the end of their secret.  
> Martin mulls over some thoughts.

> A scuttering flurry of shoe against tile echoed through the otherwise empty facility halls, Jon’s eyes darting madly from side to side. He didn’t have much time left. 

**Archivist**

Sasha!

> There, passing hurriedly through a doorway, he’d spotted her shadow. Heaving a breath, he dashed after her. He had been damn sure he’d spotted her peering in through his office window. A window which, he was also quite sure, looked right into his desk area and to the minuscule Martin no doubt in full view as well. He cursed himself for not moving the damn things years ago. He’d always said he’d get around to it one day, that having people stare in at him doing his recordings through him off his rhythm, but now? Well, now he may never well get a chance to if he didn’t get to Sasha and intercept her in whatever she was about to do. 
> 
> He latched onto the door, shoes scratching against the tile as they carried his body just a bit too far. It was the break room. Otherwise abandoned, his eyes locked onto her turned away body, her focus on pouring a can of soda into her glass. 

**Sasha**

Oh, morning Jonathan. 

> She addressed him without so much as turning around. Jon hesitated a moment before replying, heart thumping out of his chest. 

**Archivist**

Good… -huff- yes, good morning Sasha. 

> He paused a moment to further catch his breath. It’d been a while since he’d had to run so far. He’d never exactly been one for regular exercise, his weekend plans for jogging always spoiled by a spot of rain which he took as justification to spend another day indoors. 

**Sasha**

Something the matter, Jonathan? You seem a bit out of breath. 

**Archivist**

Hm? No. Nothing. I was simply coming to-... (Muttered) Jonathan?

**Sasha**

Refill a coffee mug you’ve not got. Is that it?

**Archivist**

You’ve never called me that before. 

**Sasha**

What, Jonathan? 

**Archivist**

Yes it’s… well, that’s not important. I, yes, I uhm. The coffee mug, yes. I seem to have… misplaced-

**Sasha**

Jon. I know you’ve been hiding something. 

> He froze, heart skipping a beat. Was this it? Had Sasha found them out? He briefly considered how he could play this off. Acknowledging that he knew what she was talking about was out of the question. Implicated him completely, ratted Martin out, it’d be the worst option out of them all. Playing dumb had, well, not worked up to this point, but it was better than actually trying to come up with a reputable lie. Sasha was a sharp coworker, unusually able to scope out if he was pulling something over her. 
> 
> He dared a question. 

**Archivist**

Hiding what, exactly?

> His tone was consistent, he thanked his lucky stars he was able to keep a level voice despite the pounding of his heart. His heart rate swelled as she opened her mouth to answer, nails digging deep into his palms. 

  
**Sasha**

Martin.

**Archivist**

… Martin. Yes. What about him. 

**Sasha**

That’s who you’ve got on your desk, yes?

**Archivist**

Now, listen I-!

**Sasha**

No, shush. I’m talking now. You’ve done plenty to implicate yourself already. 

> His heart sunk at that word. Implicate. Implicate meant he’d done something wrong, that she knew what he did was wrong. Prison, yes. That was the sentence for people that went against the institute. He’d be lucky to ever see the light of day again should she tell. Though, then again, who’s to say she hadn’t said already and was simply waiting out the minutes until the police stormed into his office to confiscate his little secret. His grip tightened again. Just thinking about Martin, all alone on his desk, defenseless. He’d been a fool not to keep him on him at all times. What the hell was he thinking? 
> 
> His eyes flitted to a knife sitting by the pantry. 

**Sasha**

See, I’d been thinking. Ever since Martin disappeared it just hadn’t made any sense to me. Not a single investigation was ever thoroughly conducted, something you seemed completely at ease about. That was what really strung me up. You’d never shut up about Martin during all his time here living at the institute. You’d been buying him meals, been grabbing extra newspapers for him, for god’s sake, Jon, you treated him better than you’d a girlfriend, assuming you’ve ever had one. 

Yet now, disappeared without a trace from the archives, and you seem to have no problem with it. Called the investigation “fully sufficient” when I _know_ you’ve been down in the tunnels against protocol just to find some old file that’s tangentially related to whatever account you’re reading. 

It just didn’t make sense that you’d abandon Martin like that. 

But… but you didn’t, did you? 

It was Monday I think, yes. Monday that I first noticed a shift in your behavior. Your were more flighty, paranoid even you could say. You remained hulled up in your office all day, frantically checking out the curtains whenever someone would walk by. I’m sure you thought you were being inconspicuous, but it was all the talk in the break room that day. We assumed you were on something, honestly, though considering your line of work it’s not like it’d be a bad thing. 

Y’know, it’s a tricky thing, destroying evidence. Even when you leave behind nothing, even the absence of something can be evidence. 

**Archivist**

You checked the security footage, didn’t you. 

**Sasha**

All 48 hours of it, including the redacted 2 you’d taped over. The jump in the light levels from the outside windows is what gave it away, that and the slight discrepancies in object placements. I knew something had happened in that room. I also knew you were somehow related to it. 

**Archivist**

I wasn’t the one who caused this, Sasha. You have to understand.

**Sasha**

Yes, I’m aware, Jon. 

**Archivist**

I was just doing what anyone else would-... Wait, you are?

**Sasha**

It was when you left the office earlier today that I think I finally understood what’d happened. There was… well, it was the strangest thing. A little bulge in your pocket?

As if on instinct, Jon’s hand went to his shirt pocket, nail tugging it open.

**Sasha**

I waited till you got back and, well… peaking in through your blinds isn’t as difficult as it seems. You just have to leave a pebble betwen the door and the wall to make sure it doesn’t close all the way. 

**Archivist**

So… so you spied on us… Sasha what exactly do you want? 

**Sasha**

Oh, just a peak. 

**Archivist**

A… a what, now?

**Sasha**

I want to see Martin. I caught a glance at him on your desk earlier, he’s awfully cute at that size, isn’t he? 

**Archivist**

So you’re… you’re not going to turn us in?

**Sasha**

Oh, I never said that. 

> Sasha stepped forwards, head tilted up the half inch it needed to reach Jon’s. She grabbed his tie, tugging him down to her level, nails dug deep into the cheap fabric. Jon’s eyes flailed wildly, knees bending at the commanding tug. Teeth gritted together, he glared at that smirking, smug face. Content in knowing she held all the playing cards here. 

**Sasha**

You’re going to let me see him, Jonathan. If you don’t? I’ll just snatch him up myself, turn you into the board, and tell them you… had your way with the little guy. 

**Archivist**

Sasha where the hell is this coming from??

> He struggled slightly in her grip, another tug drawing him closer to her beaming face. 

**Sasha**

You and Martin, always the happy couple aren’t you? Before you spout any nonsense about your completely platonic relationship, just know I caught you tickling him like a little mouse. But Tim and I we’re… well, let’s be real Jon, we’re left out of things. I get why you’re not a fan of Tim, sure, but me? It’s unfair Jon. Have you considered I want to be included in things? That when you find a damn shrunken coworker, perhaps you should clue me in so I don’t end up stepping on him?

So come on, take me to him Jon. You know the consequences if you don’t. 

**Archivist**

……. Fine. My arm’s tied here, isn’t it?

> Jon audibly sighs as Sasha loosens her grip on his tie. He glanced up at the security camera, poking his head out into the hallway to view the other one as well. 

**Archivist**

We ought to go to the camera room, get this footage to make sure neither of us are liable… If anything, it might help for archival purposes just having some movement to go along with the recording. Far too often I can’t tell what the hell a person’s supposed to be doing when they fail to dictate their actions to the recorder. 

**Sasha**

Fair enough. I’ll grab it in a moment. Why don’t you go and pick up Martin for me. 

* * *

**Martin**

H-hello? Is this thing on?... Oh goodness. Well, the little spinny thing is turning and the light’s on so I… I guess it’s working? Jon’s always been the one who’s good at recording anyway. 

Well, Jon’s just gone and left in a fuss. Something about Sasha I think? I’m not too sure he kind of muttered the last bits as he left. But yeah, I guess that just leaves me here then. Whoo! Welcome to the Martin Archives! Written and directed by me!

… I am a little worried about Jon. I know he said he’s been getting enough sleep but… oh well come on, I know him well enough to know when he’s lying. 

I can see the bags under his eyes. The little twitches of stress. Truth be told he’s been this way for a while. Maybe a month or more now? I think the stresses of the job’s been getting to him. Living in the archives, I’d happen upon him passed out on his desk every now and then. It’s cute almost. He tucks his head under his arms, tape recorder still gripped tight in his right hand, and drools all over his sleeve. I’m sure there’s hours of just his snores stored on those old tapes. I’d always try to click it off for him before I left so he wouldn’t waste too much tape. 

I remember one time I brought him a pillow. It was a small thing, just a little bed pillow I’d bought from the store after having to move out of my apartment. I’d bought about a dozen of the things since I’d had to abandon my sleeping stuff and didn’t want to just be snoozing on the cold hard ground. Still, I could live with just 11 stuffed pillows. He scoffed at the gift at first, told me if he came to work to sleep he’d have packed a blanket with his lunch. But sure enough, I caught him resting his head on the thing just the next day, glasses slid halfway up his face, hair flopped over his ears. 

… I miss those moments. I just wish Jon would take a minute to just… I don’t know. Breathe? I’m worried about him. I think… I think if this goes on much longer, well. 

… I’m gonna delete this in a second anyway. No harm in venting I guess. 

I’ve noticed Jon getting more… violent isn’t the right word. Reckless, I guess? He snaps at people more often, does risky things when he really ought to just take a moment and think things through. More pressingly he… Well. 

Ow- [Sharp intake of breath] 

I think something broke when he pressed his finger into me earlier. Nothing important, probably. I think it’s attached to the already fucked arm I’ve got. 

I don’t think he realizes how delicate I am. When he was pressing down on me earlier it… it was terrifying. That split moment of, “oh god does he know how hard he’s touching me?” when all that separates you and… and that moment when a bug becomes a stain, is the care of a man who got an hour’s worth of sleep last night? 

… I don’t know if he realizes how terrified I am sometimes. 

It’s scary being this small. 

…

[Recording ends.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! Thank you for reading this far and, like always, feel free to comment suggestions for future chapters!  
> All of your kudos and comments are such great motivation and I can't thank everyone enough! 
> 
> Addendum: Experimented around with a slightly different style this chapter due to the security camera element. I feel like it helps flesh out the character's internal thoughts better than pure dialogue, but I'd love feedback if anyone has it. Most chapters will likely stick to the recording format, but for more dramatic chapters I'd like to keep the option of describing action.


	5. Week 1: Dreams and Recap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week now has passed.  
> Jonathan Sims records an account of a dream

**Archivist**

Statement resumes.

Where to begin… This recording is coming exactly one week following the size displacement incident involving our coworker Martin Blackwood. One week exactly. To the exact hour, actually. It’s about quarter past three in the morning right now, Martin’s passed out in his little, improved shoe box house, and Sasha’s likely just now getting up early for the start of her weekly research assignments. 

Right, Sasha. I should probably talk about all that’s happened with her. Surprisingly enough, considering the methods she employed to get our attention, she’s been overwhelmingly … kind towards Martin. Pampering I’d almost call it. He’d call it simple, feminine gentleness I suppose, but I’d suspect the majority of her ire is directly entirely at me; the man stealing Martin’s time away from the rest of the staff. “Hogging him for myself” as she’d put it. I suppose in her own, twisted logic it does make sense. This final act of control, snatching him up when he turned little, likely sealed in her mind that I was nothing more than a manipulative ass looking to capitalize on Martin’s time and personhood.

A ridiculous assessment, obviously, but one she believes, nonetheless. She’s been rather cold towards me, though never as outwardly hostile as she was that first day. It’s because of her, though, that I’ve been unable to keep up my cataloging of Martin and my activities. “Treating him like a test subject” I believe is how she put it. Absolute nonsense. Martin’s my friend and, when in due time we return him to normal, this log will be a crucial first-person account of everything that’s happened to him. As it is, I’ve found it safer for my own sanity to simply record these logs of previous events overnight.

Now, as per what’s been happening this past week. It’s been largely uneventful, honestly. Sasha and I have, under her… duress, devised a sort of split custody system for Martin. Custody perhaps isn’t the right word for it, makes it sound like we’re his recently divorced parents vying for his affection through trips to the bloody museum. But yes, half the time I look after him, and the other half he’s vested in _her_ care.

For Martin’s part, he does seem to like being with Sasha. They were friends before all this, I suppose, so one can excuse how he doesn’t grasp the gravity of this whole situation. Unlike me, I doubt she’s taken the proper precautions when going out in public with him. [Shudder] Just the thought of going out in public… The store was due to circumstance. It was right down the street and a dozen people or less saw us considering it was ten o’clock on a weekday. It was a calculated, carefully approximated risk. Taking him on the subway, on the other hand. I’ve no idea what Sasha was thinking, bringing him back to her apartment. The number of ways her idiotic ploy at keeping him away from me could’ve backfired on the both of us, it’s as though she’s almost hoping they’ll get caught. I’m still culpable for the majority of damages, after all. At the very least, from the pictures she’s shown me, she’s gone ahead and made… suitable accommodations. A little plastic ramp taped together to let him scale up and down the kitchen counter should he need food, a doorstop placed in every doorway for his ease of transit, and a needle should he be out of her sight and need to quickly alert her to his presence. I may borrow the needle idea, honestly. I’ll take a stabbed coworker over a bloody smear any day of the week.

It’s the 5th day of the week now which means Martin’s staying with me tonight at the office. 7 days in a week, I get the odd days, it at least works out where he’s in competent hands a majority of the time. Thank God for that at least. I can’t imagine letting him out of my sight for more than a day or so. Though embarrassing to admit, I was quite overjoyed at the sight of Martin being returned to me after that first day away. Anxious thoughts of just all the ways his little excursion with Sasha could be going wrong had filled my head and I hadn’t a wink of sleep. I don’t think that aspect would’ve changed had I known what would happen that night.

It was just before three in the morning that Monday night when, having just barely fallen asleep an hour prior, I’d shot out of bed, cat flying off my lap, mewling and complaining all the way to the kitchen. I was drenched in sweat, though at the time I couldn’t remember what sort of nightmare I was having. I shuffled after the furred beast. Mind you, I was still wearing the same clothing as I’d been for the past day. Disgusting, maybe, but the possibility of Sasha messing up and getting Martin hurt kept me staring at my phone for hours in the otherwise empty silence of the night. Intent that, at any moment, that phone might ring and she’d plead for me back, that he’d beg for my care, to admit she was wrong to ever go over me… Well, it was ridiculous to believe it’d actually happen, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to waste time changing if I needed to run over there.

So yes, I made my way to the kitchen and clicked on the coffee maker. Figured if I couldn’t get myself any meaningful rest, I may as well get a head start on the next day. The cat was rubbing and loving at my legs which meant he was just desperate for me to drop his daily rations in his bowl so he could go about ignoring me. Grungy little white fur and a face that’d nearly caved in on itself, he’s lucky I bothered picking him up as a naïve, young graduate student who just couldn’t stand to see a poor animal in pain, not the least one who kept pestering outside my window sill. Still, I could never actually consider getting rid of him. Little Blanc and I have just been through too much together; if you consider me ranting about the privacies of government work and secrets to him while he naps at my feet a shared experience.

I set the kettle to boil, craving a morning cup and popped a few pieces of bread into the toaster. Went to the restroom while everything was heating up and, when I went to wash my hands, I caught a look at myself in the mirror. The bags under my eyes had grown darker. Unlike what many of my coworkers believe I’m not immune to realizing the shape I appeared in. Nothing a little well-placed makeup couldn’t fix of course, but what concerned me the most was the bloodshot look of those same eyes. “That can’t be healthy”, I remember muttering to myself. One more splash of the face and, the cold water dribbling down my chest, I caught a glimpse of a figure just behind me.

… The figure I was sure was that same shadowed man.

It was just for a moment. I could’ve written it off as a trick of the eye, but there, standing just behind me in the mirror, appeared a shadowy, hulking figure which had not been there before I closed my eyes. His, yes his for I was sure it was a he, eyes seemed to glow through the murky shadow surrounding his very being. They were a burgundy red, dull yet piercing like a ruby dug freshly out of some dirt pit. I could feel his cold breath creeping down my neck, hairs prickling down my back as I stood, frozen in that spot. It was not out of fear, no. Fear was perhaps the last thing on my mind looking this inhuman beast in the eye. The thing left without a shadow of a doubt in my mind: that this creature was the very same seen on those tapes. The one who took Martin from me. No, I did not feel fear. What consumed me, what ate at my burning innards, was the pure, seething fire of hatred.

I remember my head getting fuzzy as I slammed the medicine cabinet open, kicking a leg back into what felt like empty air. He could kill me if he wished, but I promised myself I would not die without a fight. I grappled and grabbed the first thing my hands could find, a glass bottle with medicine inside, and smashed it against the sink. I turned around to see, well, nothing. There was no figure there, no anything. No bathroom, no toaster, no _me_. It was as though I’d passed out, but it’d taken my body a few extra seconds to realize it. Collapsing to the ground, the pain of glass shards in my hand seemed only now to be registering. Gritting my teeth, I yanked a shard out, some animalistic, feral part of my brain just begging for this pain to stop. In hindsight an idiotic move, yet in that moment no rational part of my brain seemed to function. My body craved relief, and that is what was delivered.

As that newfound pain coursed through my nerves, it was as though the entire world rippled and cringed along with them. I only regret not bringing a recorder with me for the number of thoughts and theories exploding through my mind could have filled an entire volume of them. Like a car motor roaring to life after a season of neglect, my mind too raced for the first time in months. Now, however, all I have is the vague, hungover pain of remembering passing out on the tile floor and waking up a bloodied, half-conscious mess.

… I’m going to sound crazy, I know I am. People have been telling me to get more sleep, to get a therapist, to do anything but work this job. They just don’t understand. I know no one will understand. I will sound insane for what happened next, but it is the truth. Sleep deprivation or not, I _know_ reality from dream.

I woke up inside the London tube. I was in an empty cart, pasty green lights flickering above my hunched corpse as the train shuttled on. There before me was a puddle of blood where my head had lain, that same burgundy red that sent me a shudder of malice. Propping myself up, I slid onto one of the many empty chairs, that slick moisture from sanitizer clinging to the armrest. I had an inclination of what route I was on, but it was not until a soft, feminine voice announced the stop that I confirmed: I was just outside the Institute.

Walking still half in a daze, I drifted out of the cart, empty terminal consumed with the eerily quiet morning broken by nothing but the hisses of steam coming from the immobile rail. Hiking the stairs, I emerged out to the desolate London streets, a light fog having settled over the night chilled landscape. It was still dark out, a few stars hanging still beyond the closer lights of the streetlamps. Slowly, methodically I forced my legs forward, hobbling along the roads as the cold seeped through my clothing. I was only wearing the night gown, mind you, though with how it was strewn up around me from the fall, torn and hooked around the ear, it looked more an amateurly strewn together coat than any proper bit of clothing. I knew even then that, should someone see me, I’d look like a vagrant. Yet even as what little bit of my rational thought cried out, I could not stop my forward movement.

The Magnus Institute’s doors were locked, naturally. Feeling around in my coat pocket I found my keychain, selecting the correct one on the first try. I’ve since started storing my office key inside a drawer since this incident. Regardless, I entered the facility. There was no security there, a thought I remember consciously having. For whatever reason that seemed to bring me a chuckle. Laughter. That’s the sound that continues to play whenever I think back to the incident. That hideous, mocking laughter. My own joy played on loop as though to torment me.

I remember walking through the halls, all twisted, elongated, as though this workplace was thoroughly unfamiliar to me. A man made stranger in his own home. I continued through the never-ending corridors, my hand trailing along the walls in absence of any light. It was as though I was repulsed by any inclination that I might turn on a hallway switch. Just the thought of seeing such a burning sight as a lightbulb made me nauseous.

No stranger popped out of any door, nor monster lurk around any corner as my distraught brain thought very likely to exist. At some point in the trek I may have heard a clunking or clattering of another resident within these walls. Violent thoughts consumed me. I know not what spirit possessed me that night, but I know that blood was all that it craved. Cravings and sustenance, however, compose two different needs. What I was there for that night was no craving.

At last, I turned a corner and saw it. I’ve no idea how I knew this door was the right one, it was identical to the last fifty I’d passed by, yet some intuition within me knew that _this_ was exactly where I was supposed to be. With trembling hands, I pushed the door open and…

Darkness yet again. Not the familiar comfort I’d found wandering those halls. Rather suffocating, endless abyss. It came to me then a sudden, jolting realization. A realization that I… Well, I had forgotten about until the exact moment. My dreams that last night. My dreams. They had not been nothing, had not been forgotten.

My dreams were of this very room. An endless, eternal darkness. A darkness I never wish to return to again.

I still fear I may.

It’s why I don’t dare close my eyes.

Why I fear I’ll see the burgundy again.

Statement ends. 


	6. So... Tim, huh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another coworker has discovered Martin's secret. Jon's pissed, Tim's oblivious, and Martin is getting just a bit annoyed he doesn't have a say in any of this. 
> 
> Additionally: Jon goes on a walk in the park.

**Archivist**

Statement of Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement resumes.

Two weeks. Two _bloody_ weeks and our risk overhead has increased 200%. First Sasha, now _Tim_. Tim!! I mean, God, at this rate the whole god damn country is going to hear about it by next month.

**Martin**

Jon please, it’s really not that bad.

**Archivist**

Not that bad? Not that bad?!? Martin has your brain shrunk as small as your body because this is… a very, VERY bad thing indeed. Horrible, awful, downright illegal it’s…

**Martin**

Hey, hey! Come on, just breath Jon. Come on, take a seat. Breath, deep breaths, just breath.

**Archivist**

-gasp- Yes. No, I’m fine. _I’m_ fine _,_ and that’s really all there is to say on the matter. What _isn’t_ fine is the fact that a whole 3 people, three institute employees, know about your situation now.

**Martin**

Jon do you really expect Tim of all people to tell.

**Archivist**

Okay well, well no not Tim. I’ll be honest I could never pin his vibe down. Everything about him just seemed to contradict and the more I learned the less I seemed to understand. That… probably doesn’t make a lick of sense, does it? Look the fact of the matter is that there I was, sitting in my office, while you were _supposed_ to be off with Sasha for one of her bloody play dates or whatnot.

**Martin**

[Slightly annoyed] Jon.

**Archivist**

And _then_ , who do I see walk through this crusted wooden door of mine than the man himself, Tim. God, his name sours my tongue just speaking it.

**Martin**

Sours your what now?

**Archivist**

And he comes in here, not knocking, naturally, and seems to have a little something cupped in his hands. Now, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d come in here with a dead mouse or something he’d found in the breakroom and decided to make cowards of us all with it but… no, no of course it couldn’t be something so simple as that.

**Martin**

Jon, really do you have to-

**Archivist**

Quiet Martin, recording.

Now, he comes in here with this big smirking grin on his face. The type of smirk that just _goads_ you to ask what he’s found out. What sort of dirt he’s uncovered on you. He’d found a porn stash under a desk, or a million dollars stuffed up in the ventilation, he was ecstatic to tell me just what he had clasped in his bony little hands.

**Martin**

God you are… insufferable you know that?

**Archivist**

“Hey Jon” He waltzes across to my desk, sitting on some important documents, “wanna know what I found?”

**Martin**

For the love of… yes! It was me! Jesus Christ! He was holding me in his hands!!!

**Archivist**

And just _what_ was in his hands? He smirked, opening them up. None other than… yes, yes, it was you. Hm, sorry I… seemed to have gotten carried away there.

**Martin**

Yeah? You think?

Christ, Jon. It’s not like I _asked_ to be forgotten about by Sasha. It’s not like I _asked_ to be left, standing out in the open in the break room. It’s not like I asked for _Tim_ of all people to find me! And it’s not like I **asked** to be this size in the first place!!!

I’m sorry I’m such a bloody liability to you, alright? But have you ever stopped to consider just how all this is making _me_ feel? The fact he didn’t even ask to pick me up! He hardly spared a whole sentence on me before grabbing me up and cupping me like a prize won at a claw machine. It’s downright degrading! And I’m sorry that _you’re_ the one who feels indignant about all this because it’s become some liability to you, but if it’s really that much of a god damn bother, maybe you should just let Sasha hold onto me until I inevitably get stepped on, or- or plucked up by a bird, or hell just found out by the institute itself.

**Archivist**

Martin-

**Martin**

No! Just… Please, be quiet? Please.

**Archivist**

…

**Martin**

Thank you.

[Sigh]

It’s just been a really, really long week.

**Archivist**

…

You’re not a liability you know.

**Martin**

Of course I am, Jon. I’m risking all of your jobs, your free lives. You could be facing jail, a government hearing, if this ever got out.

**Archivist**

That’s not what I meant. Of course, logically yes, that does essentially describe what you are. A liability to me, to Sasha, to… fucking Tim now I guess? But have you ever stopped to ask yourself _why_ we’d take on that liability in the first place?

**Martin**

I assumed it was pity, or some fascination with what I’d become. You don’t need to lie, Jon. I’ve always been the pitiable employee here. I’m the guy you send to follow leads you yourself don’t think are there. I’m the one who had to cower here in the institute when Prentiss came back. Look, I’ve come to terms with being the most expendable employee okay?

**Archivist**

That’s… that’s not it at all, Martin!

**Martin**

Save it, Jon. You’re not sparing anyone’s feeling but your own.

**Archivist**

Martin I… -sigh-. It’s not that I think you’re incompetent, or weak, or expendable, or any of those lies your brain’s got you spouting on about. It’s…

I care about you Martin. I… worry about you. A lot, really. Even before all _this_ happened. I worried what happened to you after Prentiss, I worried for you when you had to stay here, I worried and worried and _worried_ and now? Now that you’re…

I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you on my watch. You’re more than a coworker, Martin. You’re the closest thing I have to a friend.

**Martin**

… Thanks, Jon. You know you don’t need to worry about me, right? I’ll… I’ll be okay on my own.

**Archivist**

Even if that were true I wouldn’t trust anyone else to keep as diligent an eye on you.

**Martin**

And I appreciate it. You… God. Despite everything, you make me feel safe.

**Archivist**

Really?... I mean- I’m glad.

**Martin**

…Come on, it’s getting late now. We should be heading home, right?

**Archivist**

R-right. Coat pocket?

**Martin**

Yep.

**Archivist**

Hmph. Come on, hop on. It’ll only be a little while.

End recording.

**Archivist**

Begin supplemental.

Right, is this thing on? I’ve gone ahead and swiped another recorder from the office. It’s one of the old archivist’s, seems to be pretty busted up but functional at the very least. But if this cuts out, well, now you know why.

I’m currently standing on an empty bridge in Hyde Park, approximately 11 in the evening and the night’s as cold as ice. I’d have just recorded this in my apartment if I’d known it’d be this cold out but… well, neighbors. You can never be too careful.

I’ve gone ahead and left Martin in my bedroom. See, the main issue before preventing him from coming home was, well, the cat. But with Tim knowing about him the office has just become too much of a hotbed to be secure in his safety. I’ve decided to keep him here over the weekend and, after I pulled a few strings with the neighbors, they’ve agreed to look after Blanc for the next few days. Told them I was going on a “business trip”, but I’m almost certain they could hear me talking to Martin tonight as I made dinner so I’ve no idea what they’re assuming now.

Bringing all of Martin’s things from the office wasn’t too hard, honestly. Just a simple matter of folding up his bed, tucking his spare clothes in my glasses case, and stuffing him down a shirt pocket. He’s gone and settled into my room. Can’t say I wasn’t entirely comfortable sharing a bed with him, figured I’d accidentally roll over in the middle of the night and… Well, and you’ve got to understand the implications of two grown colleagues sleeping together.

Not, okay obviously not _sleeping_ sleeping together. No, that… that’s a ridiculous notion. I’m not- That’s-

-sigh- obviously, there’s… nothing _wrong_ with two grown men sleeping together in a platonic, caring way like that. Obviously not. The notion that there must be some romantic undertone in the simple act of sleeping in the same bed is a bygone, conservative bit of nonsense that’s about as antiquated as caring if the partner in your bed’s a man or a woman.

But supposing there _was_ something romantic about it. Which there isn’t, obviously. But supposing there was. There wouldn’t be anything odd about that either, right? I mean, we’re obviously two grown, consenting men, there’s… It’s not as though I’m interested in men… bloody well convinced I’m asexual even, but the fact of the matter is that there would be nothing weird about us doing anything in that nature.

I suppose the size, yes, the size would be a factor, wouldn’t it?

God, listen to me ramble. The supplemental is entirely for me, by the way. I’m obviously not putting my personal feelings and opinions into an official report. I sent Sasha and Tim a tape to fill up with their own statements about the matter but, knowing them, I’m sure it’ll only be a matter of time before it boils down to inane tutting about how “adorable” and “Cute” this Martin is.

They’ve not got a lick of respect for him, either of them. They treat him like a toy, a novelty. They’d just as quickly abandon him for the next cutest thing. Why can’t they see he’s just as much a human person as you or me? That he’s _still Martin._ He’s still… he’s still my Martin.

I… I regret never being able to say what I wanted to before all of this. I figure it’s a bloody good conflict of interest now, though.

… This is dumb. Why did I even come out here?

The night’s bitter, cold.

It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to hold onto on night’s like these. I miss those days though. When you could return home to the warm glow of another person’s smile? Let the stress and worry of a day at work fade away while you two find comfort in the cup of each other’s body. Did I really think I’d find anything like that with Martin?

It’s unfair, really, to push this idea on him. He’s vulnerable. Fragile. I could kill him without a second thought.

Is that anything? A type of mercy to leave him be. Or am I an awful person just for considering it. Maybe he’s right, maybe I’m not anything better than-

…

What the?

Tim?

**Tim**

[Distant] Hey! Jon! Fancy seeing you all the way out here!

**Archivist**

Tim it’s almost bloody midnight what the hell are you… are you jogging?

**Tim**

Hm? Oh! Yeah, see, I always go out for a late-night jog. Since starting this job I just haven’t had time to do it before work, see, and it gets bloody crowded trying to do it during rush hour. Anyway, could say the same about you! Get stood up for a date, again?

**Archivist**

I-I no! Of course not! Again? What? What are you-

**Tim**

Oh come off it Jon, we all know that fling with that police lady never went anywhere! Always thought you invited her out and got stood up, lover boy.

**Archivist**

That’s… that’s incorrect on so many levels I don’t know where to begin. No, I’m not seeing anyone for a date. As I’ve told you numerous times in the past I’m completely single at the moment.

**Tim**

Well yeah, at the moment sure, but that’s the point of dates, isn’t it? To change that relationship status from the single… to the engaged!

**Archivist**

Please… please stop waving your arms like that. Look, it’s… it’s Martin, I’m recording a supplemental log for our-

**Tim**

Say! Speaking of Martin!

**Archivist**

Oh God…

**Tim**

Look man, completely understand what I saw today. No hard feelings, alright?

**Archivist**

I… you mean, about Martin?

**Tim**

Yeah, yeah I mean. I’m not one to judge what you two are into! Heaven knows I’ve got a few kinks up my sleeve.

**Archivist**

What we’re… wait, what? Tim that’s not-

**Tim**

Look! So you wanted to try out something new, I get that! Bringing in Sasha too, bit of a conflict of interest honestly but hey she’s a nice gal. I can dig a polycule style get together too.

**Archivist**

Tim I- That’s not!!

**Tim**

Hey, say no more! I mean, if _I_ found someway to make myself small, would I? Something about the gaze of another person who’s a hundred feet taller than you, gives you that rush, huh?

**Archivist**

… My mouth is dangling open, I… I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

**Tim**

Well, I won’t keep too much of your time. Oh! Martin’s not here, is he? In the pocket, I assume? Only question is front or rear huh?

**Archivist**

I’m walking away, this is… this is absolutely- Stop winking!!

**Tim**

Ah come on, Jon. Hey, invite me next time and I’ll provide the drinks, eh?

**Archivist**

… -sigh- thank God he’s running the other way. So that’s what he thinks this is, huh? Some big… sex thing? Christ I’d be too embarrassed to show my face at work ever again if I brought my sex life into the office.

We’re not dating. Martin and I? We are _not._ Dating.

…

[Rushed] End supplement.

**Author's Note:**

> I've only listened up to the start of Season 2, so please no spoilers.


End file.
